


Flight Square

by RubraSaetaFictor



Series: The Morals of Chess [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Gen, Parentlock, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Realistic Parentlock, Story: The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8849941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubraSaetaFictor/pseuds/RubraSaetaFictor
Summary: Violet Hunter comes to Sherlock Holmes looking for advice on a new job she's considering. It hardly seems like a case, but it's one that will have Sherlock questioning everything he knew about parenthood.A continuation of the Moral of Chess Series.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _In chess, a flight square or escape square is a safe place or a square to which a King or other piece can move if it is threatened. A bishop sometimes begins to get hemmed in after Morphy's defense is used, and thus pawn to c3 may be used to create an extra escape square._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _One way to get a king out of check is to move to a flight square on the next move. (The other ways to get out of check are to capture the checking piece or to interpose a piece to block the check.) If the checked king has no flight square and there is no other way to get out of check, it is checkmate._
> 
> _One way to win material from an opponent (that is to say, end up with more pieces or more valuable pieces left on the board) is to dominate a piece by removing all of its flight squares (through attacking or occupying them), then threatening to capture it._
> 
> _See also: Luft_
> 
>    
> “Data! Data! Data!” he cried impatiently. “I can’t make bricks without clay.” And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation. – The Adventure of the Copper Beeches.

Sherlock Holmes rubbed the sore spot on his ribs as he walked up stairs to 221B Baker Street. The Italian had been a large man and he wasn’t getting any younger; no doubt there’d be a bruise come morning. Nothing to be done for it, he thought, as he reached the landing and stood up to his tallest. 

No sooner had he pushed open the door than a small blond whirlwind suctioned itself to his knees.

“Pata!”

“Are you still up?” Sherlock asked his daughter with mock severity as he picked her up by the waist, “I believe it’s nearly an hour past your bedtime.”

John Watson poked his head out from beneath a sheet pulled over several dining chairs in the centre of the room. “When you texted you were done, I told Rosie she could stay up until you got back, though I thought that’d be an half an hour ago,” John said as he crawled out from the bedsheet fortress. “I resorted to fort-building, but it gets hot in there after a while.”

“Lestrade insisted on taking my statement tonight. He’s getting more crotchety the older he gets, I think.”

“No, he’s getting smarter. Finally learned that if he lets you go, he’ll never get anything out of you.” John pulled the sheet off the chairs and began to fold it. “There’s a plate for you in the fridge, but you’ll have to mic it.”

“Did you catch the bad guys, Pata?” Rosie asked, knees clinging to her father’s waist as he walked to the kitchen.

“Bad guy, and yes.” Sherlock deposited his daughter on the counter and turned to the refrigerator.

“You made London safe?”

“The poorly-cast busts of Napoleon have been freed from their terror,” Sherlock said as he put the plate in the microwave. 

“Pata, you’re being silly.”

“Perhaps, but it’s true. Your Uncle Lestrade thought it was some French-hating lunatic and as usual he was wrong.”

“What’s ‘hating’?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, “ John said as he shot Sherlock a look. “What was it then?”

“A thief. Stole a jewel and put it into the plaster. Unfortunately for the first five busts, he couldn’t remember which one. The Borgias pearl if you can believe it.” The microwave pinged.

“Two cases with one stone, eh? Not bad for a night’s work.” 

Sherlock paused from eating his pasta. “Considering the pearl was lost a year ago, not my finest hour.”

“Yes, well then. I suppose you’ll have to turn in your title of world’s best consulting detective.”

“Only.”

“I think you’re the best,” Rosie said hugging her father from the counter.

“And I think you should be in bed, young lady.”

“But Daddy promised me you’d do my plaits!”

“Plaits?”

John sighed, “She insisted she wanted to wear her hair in plaits to bed, but I’m crap at it, so I promised you would.”

Sherlock put down his plate, took off his coat, and began to comb his fingers through Rosie’s soft curls. “I sent you several helpful video tutorials.”

“And I watched all nine of them, but my hands just don’t work that way.”

Sherlock’s finger got stuck halfway down Rosie’s hair. He turned his hand over and inspected the tangle, realizing that it was, in fact, a very sorry attempt at a plait. Sherlock looked up at John, “No, no they don’t.” 

Sherlock picked Rosie up off the counter and placed her on the ground. “Go get a brush. Pata is going to give you some proper plaits and then it’s off to bed.”

Sherlock picked up his fork and took another bite.

“Remember when you could eat sitting down?” John asked with a smile.

Sherlock sighed, “I never realized how much I took sitting for granted.” 

“You never really miss something until it’s gone, I guess,” John shrugged.

Rosie scurried back into the room with a brush and a handful of elastics and sat down on the floor in front of Sherlock’s chair. “Pata, I want five braids.”

Sherlock put down his fork on his half-full plate and crossed to sitting room. “Two.”

“Four?”

“Two. It’s either two or dozens, anything in-between is just silly!”

“Three, please Pata?”

“Fine, but we’re taking them out in the morning!”


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs. Hudson knocked firmly on the door. “Sherlock! Sherlock, dear?”

There was a loud thud from the other side of the door.

“Sherlock, are you all right?

She heard a squeak and another thud. She sighed and pushed open the door.

“Sherlock, you’ve a client downstairs, been ringing for a full minute!”

“Save me!!” Rosie ran through the open doorway and scurried behind Mrs. Hudson.

“From what, dear?” asked Mrs. Hudson, suddenly concerned.

“Scary monster!!” Rosie replied, pointing toward the kitchen.

“Scary what?”

“RAARRRGH!” Sherlock leapt out from the kitchen, his hair wild, his arms raised, and his fingers bent into claws.

 “Oh!” Mrs. Hudson startled and then swung her arm, slapping Sherlock clean across the face. Rosie squealed and ducked back behind Mrs. Hudson.

“Ow!” Sherlock’s monster form dropped as he raised a no longer clawed hand to his cheek. “That stings.”

“Serves you right,” huffed Mrs. Hudson, walking into the flat with Rosie behind her, “frightening an old woman and a little girl.”

“It was her idea.”

“Well, with all the ruckus, you’ve nearly missed a client. She’s been waiting downstairs for some time now. Do you want me to take Rosie? I’m off to the shops, but she’s welcome to come along.”

“Oh no, she talks you into far too many sweets.” Sherlock squatted down and spoke to his daughter, still hiding behind Mrs. Hudson, “Rosie, would you mind colouring for a bit? Pata needs to help someone.” He paused a moment, and looked back up at Mrs. Hudson. “It’s not a murder is it?”

“How should I know? They don’t tell me anything.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Did the client look upset?”

“Nervous, but not upset.”

“We’re probably fine then. Send him up, then off to the shops with you.”

“Her.”

“No matter. Oh and could you pick up some chocolate biscuits? We’re out.”

“And you say _she_ talks me into too many sweets.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head and planted a kiss on the top of Rosie’s. “I’ll send her up.”

Sherlock took a quick glance around the room before spotting the object of his desire on the floor under the coffee table. He reached down and pulled up a colouring book with a handful of loose sheets sticking out of it and ran his hand under the sofa, picking up a handful of crayon bits. He flipped open the book to the centre and dropped the crayons in it. “Here you go.”

Rosie grabbed a pink crayon and began filling in the face of a cow.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and smoothed down the front of his shirt, then turned just as his client reached the landing.

His eyes did a quick scan of the pretty young woman in front of him. “You’re a nanny.”

The woman looked surprised. “Yes, well I was. But how did you --?”

“Your shoes are scuffed on the top of foot, an unusual spot, but not so much if you tend to sit or crawl around on the floor, which the wear patterns on the knees of your trousers would seem to confirm. You also have a tendency to lean to the left, toward the side where the wool of your jumper is pilling around the waist from carrying around children with your non-dominant arm. But the small size of your bag is rare for a parent, so a nanny or a nursery school teacher then, but since your jumper is only pilling on one side you’re likely only dealing with a single child, ergo nanny.”

“That’s astonishing.”

“Simple observation. I’ve had plenty of experience with those in your profession.”

“Many nannys in need of a private detective then?”

“Consulting detective, and no, but they do tend to frequent parks.” Sherlock nodded his head back toward Rosie.

“Oh! There’s a child. You have a child?”

“Obviously.”

“I wouldn’t have thought– the website doesn’t mention her.”

“My life has become unfortunately public, hers doesn’t have to be.”

“Yes, of course.” The woman appeared a bit chagrined, “I can come back. Should I come back?”

Sherlock glanced at Rosie. “She seems content for now. Rosie, can you say hello to Miss..?”

“Hunter. Violet Hunter.”

“Miss Violet.”

“Hello, Miss Violet,” Rosie said.

“Hello, Rosie.” Violet said smiling kindly. Alice smiled back and then quickly ducked her head back down to her cow, its face now a densely-filled in rainbow.

Sherlock pulled out a chair and gestured for Violet to sit and he sat back on the sofa. “So, Miss Hunter, how may I assist you?”

Violet sat, glancing at Rosie briefly before beginning. “I’ve come to you for advice.”

“Advice? I solve crimes, not plan them.”

“Nothing like that. About a job offer.”

Sherlock’s brow crinkled. “This isn’t a counsellor’s office.”

“I’ve nowhere else to turn. I’ve no family to speak of and have lived with my employers for so long I’ve no real outside relationships. I’ve been reading Mr. Watson’s blog for so long, I love crime stories you see, that I somewhat come to feel as if I know you both --“

Sherlock interjected, “Don’t believe everything you read online.”

“And the situation I’ve been offered is somewhat odd, so I thought it may be of some interest to you.”

“Well, you’re here. Out with it.”

Violet tucked her hair behind her ear, a bit nervously. “As you guessed –“

“Deduced.”

“I’m a nanny. Or was. For the past five years I’ve been working for the same family, helping raise their boy since birth, but several months ago they decided to move to Canada and though they asked, I decided not to go. I was certain with a solid reference I’d be able to find another position easily, but nowadays it seems you’re only wanted if you have a degree in early childhood education and speak three languages. My parents died when I was young, so I never went to university, but I love children and I’m quite good with them." Violet cast a glance at Rosie before continuing, "It’s been months and I haven’t been able to find anything on my own, so I signed up with a placement service about a month ago. Even so, they haven’t been able to find me anything, so I was thrilled when they called me in last week with a potential offer. ” Violet looked over again at Rosie, “I’m sorry to be intruding on your time like this. I really can come back.”

“It’s fine. You haven’t even got to the interesting part yet.”

“Pata?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Colour with me.”

“How do we ask for things, Rosie?”

“Would you colour with me, please?”

“Alright.” Sherlock edged off the sofa and sat with his legs crossed under the table, grabbing a brown crayon.

“No, Pata, the pink one.”

Sherlock exchanged his crayon and looked up at Violet. “Continue.”

“Are you sure?”

“I assure you that colouring hardly occupies the entirety of my mind. I am perfectly capable of making a pink duck and listening to you. Go on.”

“I went to the placement firm’s main office and there was a man there, the client I assumed, since I’d never seen anyone other than Ms. Stoper, the woman who runs the place, in there. Usually they leave their requirements and the firm arranges outside interviews, so this was already a bit odd. I walked in the room, Ms. Stoper asked me to shut the door and before I could even sit down, the fellow gave me a once over and said ‘She’ll do wonderfully. Capital!’”

“Was it a leering look?”

“Not at all.”

“Did he make you feel uncomfortable?”

“Quite the opposite, actually.  He, Mr. Rucastle is his name, was quite friendly. Jovial even. He shook my hand quite vigorously and asked my name and said he had been searching for a nanny for a month and was so pleased to have finally found one quite so qualified. I was afraid that Ms. Stoper had exaggerated my accreditations to secure her placement fee, and I am an honest woman, so I clarified that I had no degree and only read a bit of French.  He said that degrees were nonsense and that clearly I was lady well-suited to teaching children. I’m sorry, but this is terribly uncomfortable for me.”

“It is an old chair, you can take the sofa if you’d prefer.”

“No, um. Would you mind if I?” Violet gestured toward the table and crayons. “I don’t like sitting above a child, if I can help it.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said, then turned to his daughter, “Rosie, would you mind if Miss Violet colours with us?”

Rosie blushed and slid a paper over to Violet. “She can have the doggie, they’re my favourites.”

“You can continue?” Sherlock asked.

Violet Hunter smiled. “I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of coloring a dog and telling a story.”

Sherlock smiled.

“No, really.” Violet added, deadpan, “It’s on my CV. Very important skill for a nanny.”

“Then who am I to stop you? Mr. Rucastle seems to have settled on you quickly, but there may have been cause.”

Violet began shading in the paws of her pup outline. “Perhaps, but I was shocked when he asked my most recent salary and then offered double!”

“Which was?”

“Six hundred pounds a month.”

“For what services?”

“As soon as I got my wits back about me, I asked him just how many children did he have? He laughed and just said one – a charming boy of six and in his words ‘Oh, if you could see him killing cockroaches with his shoe! Smack! Smack! Smack! Three gone before you could wink!'’

“That’s icky.” Rosie frowned.

“Yes, and cruel. We should be kind to all creatures, shouldn’t we?” Violet said gently.

“Why would he kill things?”

“People are driven to kill for all sorts of reasons, Rosie, dear. We’ve discussed this.” Sherlock answered.

“You have?” Violet asked, eyes wide.

“It has a tendency to come up in my line of work and I see no reason to hide what I do.”

“Pata catches bad men and keeps London safe.”

“Oh.” Violet continued, “my first though was that the child was … well, difficult, and he’d run out of nannies willing to take him on, which could account for the high rate. So I asked if my sole duty would be to take charge of a single child.”

“Were they?’

“No. And here’s where it gets odd. He said his wife was very particular and may on occasion ask me to do certain tasks, but nothing that wouldn’t befit a lady.”

“Such as?”

“Wearing specific clothing, I’ve worn plenty of uniforms before, so that was no matter, but then he asked if I would be okay with cutting my hair short, very short. He laughed and repeated that his wife was very particular, but well, I’m not a vain person, I’m really not, but one’s hair-” Violet looked up at Sherlock’s own mop of curls, “Well, maybe you understand. I told him I couldn’t possibly, and it was almost as if a shadow passed over his face.

‘There’s no debate on that point, I’m afraid,’ he said,  ‘You know how a woman can be when she gets an idea in her head and my wife is absolutely committed to this one.’

I repeated that I simply couldn’t and he told Ms. Stoper to find some more employees for his perusal. As for Ms. Stoper, I could tell she was livid and she asked if I still wished to be represented by her firm.  I said I did, but she replied that it seemed rather useless, if I was going to turn down such a desirable offering and that was that. I stopped at the bank on the way home to withdrawl some cash for weekly needs, and when I looked at the balance I had to ask myself if I had done a very foolish thing indeed. After all, these people may be odd, but they were willing to pay for their eccentricity and it’s only hair after all.” Violet tucked her hair behind her ear again, with a look that she’d be missing the motion soon, and continued, “by the time I got home, I had decided to call Ms. Stoper back and tell her I’d changed my mind if the position was still open, but before I had the chance, I’d received an email from Mr. Ruscatle himself.” 

“Do you have it with you?”

Violet reached out for her bag and pulled a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Sherlock, who read the following:

 

_Ms. Hunter –_

_Ms. Stoper kindly provided me with this address and I hope you don’t mind me contacting you directly this way. I spoke with my wife about our meeting this morning and she’s agreed with me that you would be perfect for the job. We are willing to raise the rate we offered by another 20%, to pay you for any inconvenience our little whims may cause you. The hair, I’m sorry to say, must go. It is a pity, for even one as unaware of beauty as I am noticed it during our brief interview, but I must remain firm. Also my wife is quite fond of a particular blue dress that she wishes to you wear. Don’t worry about purchasing it, my daughter recently moved to America and left a lovely one behind that I think will be just your size._

_If you change your mind, I can pick you up at the station at Winchester as soon as tomorrow._

_Let me know,_

_Jephro Rucastle_

 

Sherlock read the print-out with a furrowed brow and then folded up the missive and returned it silently to Violet.

“Well?” she asked.

“You’ve already made up your mind to take it, I think.”

“The money is awfully good.”

“Then who I am to counsel otherwise? I don’t think your looks will be much harmed by a haircut, if that’s what you’re worried about, but the rest I leave to you.”

“Yes, but what does it all mean – the hair, the dress?”

“I have no data and without data I can only guess. You met the man, what do _you_ think it means?”

“I think there’s only one possible solution: the man’s wife is mad. Mr. Rucastle seemed perfectly normal and good-natured, I imagine he loves his wife and humors her whims to keep her calm.”

“That is one possible solution, a probable one, and perhaps even the correct one. But I cannot tell. There is something unsettling about the whole thing.”

“But the money!”

“Precisely – why pay more than twice the going rate? Surely there are other desperate women out there who would take the position for almost nothing?”

“Desperate?” Violet asked quietly.  She looked at the folded paper in her hand and placed it in her bag purposefully. “I suppose I am. Thank you for clarifying the matter for me, Mr. Holmes. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor hair tonight, and take the earliest train to Winchester.” Violet stood up and hooked her bag over her shoulder. “Rosie, thank you for sharing your crayons. Mr. Holmes, thank you for your time.” Violet headed toward the door.

“Bye, Miss Violet!” Rosie said waving.

“One last question, if you don’t mind,” Violet said from the doorway.

“Yes?”

“If it was her, would you let her go?” Violet asked, nodding her head toward Rosie.

Sherlock looked at his daughter and back at his client and said solemnly,  “Not in a million years.”

“Okay.” Violet nodded again and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Sherlock watched as she turned and began to head down the stairs.

“Damn it,” Sherlock muttered to himself, then hastily grabbed a crayon, scribbled on his colouring page, and ran toward the landing. “Ms. Hunter, wait.”

Violet paused in front of the door.

“This is my mobile number. If you get to your new job and anything doesn’t feel right, don’t hesitate to call. Well, text, I don’t much care for calls. “

Violet took the paper gratefully. “Thank you.” She looked at the neatly coloured duck and smiled. “I shall feel much better knowing you’ve got my back." She tucked the page in her coat pocket. "You are right, you know, Mr. Holmes.”

“How so?”

“You shouldn’t believe what you read online. People can surprise you in the most wonderful of ways.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Good Lord,” John said as he shrugged off his coat, “I hope your day was better than mine.”

“It had its moments.” Sherlock replied carrying a pot from the kitchen to sitting room table. “Everyone come sit, supper’s ready.” Sherlock scooped out spoonfuls of a creamy glop over plates of egg noodles.

John plopped down in his seat as Rosie crawled into the chair across from him. “What is this?”

“The recipe on the back of the can said stroganoff, but it’s really just cream of mushroom soup and chicken on noodles.”

“Fair enough.” John took a bite. “It’s edible.”

“Only the best for my family,“ Sherlock said.

John looked over at his daughter. “So, what where the ‘moments’ of the day?”

“Pata had a lady guest today.” Rosie said, picking the noodles out from beneath the glop.

“A lady guest?” John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“A client,” Sherlock corrected as he sat at the head of the table.

“She was pretty.”

“Oh, was she?”

“Very pretty. I liked her hair.”

“Yes. It was quite fortunate you weren’t present, as I’m certain you would have fallen in love immediately and been engaged by the end of the week.”

John shot Sherlock a look. “Sherlock…”

“She coloured me a doggie.”

“That was nice of her,” John said to his daughter, before turning toward Sherlock. “Well, is it a good case?”

“It wasn’t a case at all. She wanted job advice, John. Job advice!”

“So, not a good case then?”

“I blame you, you know. That drabble you’ve posted on your blog has made the public think that I’m available to consult on the most trivial of matters. Next thing you know I’ll be the first stop for someone looking for a pair of lost eyeglasses.”

“I would say I have been fair and accurate in my reporting and that you wouldn’t have gotten nearly half the good cases you have had, if it wasn’t for my blog. “ John took another mouthful.  “Did you say she should take it?”

Sherlock stopped at that. “No. I didn’t. But I fear she shall anyway.”

“Well, if it isn’t a case, then what is it to you?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing at all,” Sherlock said, waving the thought away with his hand. “It may perhaps become something, there were a few points of interest, but it’s nothing. She has my number should anything come to pass.”

“So you gave a pretty lady your number then?”

“A very pretty lady.” Rosie mumbled through a mouthful of noodles.

“Chew that!” yelled both her parents at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late post on this brief chapter, I'm afraid. It being the holidays, I'm short on computer time, but the plan is to post every other day from here out.
> 
> Also, because I am easily convinced to do silly things, let me know if there's a specific moment in the story you'd like illustrated and I'll pick one or two to do, as time allows.


	4. Chapter 4

“Rosie, this is quiet time,” Sherlock yelled up the stairs as he descended them. “You don’t have to sleep, but you do need to be quiet.”

Sherlock sighed as he walked into the kitchen and looked at the mess of crumbs and jam stains on the table. _Nap time could not have come soon enough_ , he thought. John had a double-shift today, which meant he had been on his own for the 15-minute crying jag over the wrong-coloured plate at a breakfast.  Then, as if to match her mood, it had been pouring rain all morning and Rosie had refused to change out of her pyjamas if she couldn’t go to the park.

So they had stayed inside and apparently there _was_ a limit of _Bottersnikes and Gumbles_ a child could watch. Unfortunately, it was about three episodes past his personal limit. You would think still being in pyjamas would have made Rosie more open to nap time, but like many things Sherlock had assumed this morning, he was wrong. _This is what the rest of the world must feel like_ , Sherlock thought, _being wrong all the time._ It was exhausting.

And John wouldn’t be home until seven.

Sherlock grabbed a dish cloth and wiped off the table. He needed some space to fill his brain with things that had nothing to do with jam sandwiches, or plate colour, or potty-training, or children. He unlocked the upper cabinet and pulled down his microscope, then went to the refrigerator and removed the samples Molly had provided him with earlier in the week. He had a theory about an unexplained death, a young diabetic with severe acne.  The next hour and half would be the perfect time to see if an acetone injection could trigger ketoacidosis in a high-risk individual.

Sherlock placed the first blood sample on the slide and slid it onto the microscope stage, when he heard a thump from upstairs. Sherlock took a deep breath and rested his forehead against the eyepiece.

“Rosie. Quiet time!”

He paused for a moment and heard the scurrying of feet and then silence. He looked back through the scope, adding a drop of acetone mixed with solid carbon dioxide and waited for a reaction.

There was another thump and a squeak from upstairs.

Sherlock stood up and walked to the foot of the stairs. “Rosie…”

“Sorry, Pata. I’m sleeping now.”

Sherlock returned to his equipment and looked through the eyepiece. He pulled the slide out and tossed it into the sink. The timing of the reaction was crucial and he’d missed it. He grabbed a clean slide and prepped it as before. _Interesting_ , Sherlock thought, engrossed in the reaction he witness through his eyepiece.

“Pata,” a quiet voice came from the base of the staircase, “is naptime over?”

“Rosie, I said you didn’t have to nap, but you have to be quiet. Pata’s busy right now.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Can I be quiet down here? I promise I’ll be quiet.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. Go play with your things, quietly.”

Sherlock looked back at his work as he heard Rosie dump out her blocks. _That should keep her occupied for a bit_ , he thought hopefully.

He paused to scribble down some observations in his notebook and set up the stopwatch on his phone.

“Pata, do you want to build with me?”

“Not right now, I’m in the middle of something.”

“Okay.” Rosie shuffled off back to her blocks.

Another slide was mounted, droplet added, stopwatch prepped.

“Don’t you want to play with me?” Rosie asked standing at the foot of a small tower.

Sherlock put down the watch, the seconds still rolling off. “It’s not that I don’t, it’s just that - Pata’s working on something right now. You promised you’d be quiet. I’ll play with you when I’m done. The quieter you are the quicker I’ll be finished.”

“Okay.”

New slide. Watch reset.

“Pata, I need help.”

“In a second.”

“I can’t reach the top.”

“Just a second.” Sherlock’s voice grew more urgent.

“I can’t reach, Pata. I can’t reach.”

“I said, just a second! Can’t you just give me a second’s peace and quiet?!” Sherlock boomed across the room.

The flat fell deathly quiet. Sherlock looked up and saw Rosie standing, with a block in her upraised hand, not quite reaching the top of the tower and her lip quivering. They stayed that way for what felt like an hour, but which the stopwatch counted as 1.86 seconds, when Rosie burst into tears.

Sherlock pushed up off his stool, clattering it to the ground and rushing over to his daughter, knocking over her tower as he pulled her against his chest, her little arms automatically clinging to his neck.

“You scared me,” Rosie gasped out between heaving sobs.

“I’m so sorry.” Sherlock muttered into his daughter’s hair.

“You’re not supposed to yell.”

“I’m so so sorry.”

And for the next eight minutes and 42.32 seconds, Sherlock didn’t care about the sharp wooden block corners digging into his thighs and the back of his neck as Rosie clung to him tightly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I swear,” John said as he thundered into the flat, “I’m just going to walk from here out, because there’s absolutely no point in taking the Tube.”

“I’ve been telling you that from years. Electrical issue on the homeward train?” Sherlock said, hardly looking up from his chair, where he sat flipping through Guns & Ammo magazine.

“For the third time this month!”

“Take a cab if you need to.”

“Right,” John said, removing his coat and leaning over to kiss Rosie on the head, “Sorry, luv, you can’t go to university because Daddy couldn’t handle the Tube.”

“I made this for you, Daddy!” Rosie said, standing up from the floor and handing John a piece of paper coloured in various circular shapes.

“That beautiful luv. Those are lovely…” John looked up at Sherlock, who simply shrugged. “- er, shapes.”

“Silly Daddy, it’s fruit! Those are apples and bananas!”

“Of course it is. Speaking of, is there anything left for supper?”

“Beans on toast, but you’ll have to open a fresh tin.”

“Right-o, works for me.”

Sherlock put his magazine down, and stood up. “Alright Rosie, you’ve seen Daddy, now it’s time for bed.”

“I want Daddy to put me to bed.”

“Your father just got home from work and is going to eat supper. Come along.”

“I want Daddy.”

“Rosie, Daddy’s busy.”

“Sherlock, it’ll only take a few minutes, I can take her up,” John said from kitchen, cranking the opener on a tin of beans.

“Nonsense, eat. Let’s go, Rosie.”

“I want Daddy. Not you.”

Sherlock blinked at his daughter. “Don’t be ridiculous, let Daddy eat and I’ll put you to bed.”

Sherlock picked up his daughter in his arms and began walking toward the staircase.

“NO! Daddy! I want Daddy!” Rosie wailed and began to pound her fists against Sherlock’s back. “Daddy!”

Sherlock set his daughter down on the bottom stair, stunned.

“I don’t want you.“ Rosie said, sniffling and looking Sherlock straight in the eye. “Go away.”

John put down his tin and snapped, “Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes. You are allowed to have a preference, but you are not allowed to be rude.”

“Don’t bother, John,” Sherlock said, “its fine.”

“It’s not fine, she’s being rude.”

Sherlock turned stiffly and walked over to the kitchen, taking the can-opener from the table. “She wants you. I’ll warm up your beans. Put her to bed.”

“It’s not about that, Sherlock.”

“She clearly doesn’t want me, so who am I to argue?” Sherlock said, his focus intent on cranking the can-opener.

John looked between Sherlock and Rosie, then sighed and hefted Rosie up into arms. “Don’t think you’re being rewarded for this behaviour,” he said as they headed up the stairs, “you’ll be getting no stories tonight.”

“Not even one, Daddy?”

Sherlock shut his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to squelch the sudden roiling in his stomach. _I need a drink_ , he thought, _some water. That supper is sitting poorly with me._ But as he lifted his hand to reach for a glass off the drying rack, he found it was shaking. He shook his hand and grabbed the glass, filling it with water from the tap and taking a quick swig. _See? Better,_ he thought, ignoring the slight clatter as he set the glass back down. He reached for the now-open tin of beans and dumped them in a pot and turned on the hob. Then pulled out his cabinet key and unlocked the upper cabinet, removing his microscope.

Sherlock looked for a clean spot to his equipment down, and grabbed the bag of bread that was lying in his way. He pulled two slices from the bag, put them down in the toaster and tossed the bread bag on the counter.  By the time John came back down the stairs, he was bent over his microscope.

“You read her a story didn’t you?” Sherlock asked, his focus on the slide below him.

“Just one.”

Sherlock gestured vaguely toward the stove with his hand. “Your supper is done.”

John switched off the hob on the boiling pot of beans and pulled the burnt toast from the toaster. “Done’s the right word for it.”  He grabbed a butter knife and began scraping the black off the bread. “I’m sorry about all that, you know. I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

“It’s fine. In any case, I have better things to do than read anything involving Peppa Pig.“

“She doesn’t really mean it, you know.”

“This experiment is very time sensitive, John, if you don’t mind.”

“Right. Sorry.”

John took his plate of burnt toast and over-cooked beans to table, and ate his too-hot meal in silence.


	5. Chapter 5

“Daddy!” Rosie yelled from her room, “I need a change!”

Sherlock looked up from his steaming cup of coffee toward the shut en suite door, where a gentle hissing sound indicated that John was still in the middle of his morning shower.

“Coming!” Sherlock yelled back up, pushing himself up from his chair and making his way up the stairs. “Morning, dear.”

Rosie sat up in her bed, her hair curly and wild, and stuck out her lower lip. “Not you. Daddy.”

“Daddy’s in the shower right now.”

“I’ll wait,” Rosie said, laying back down and pulling the blanket over herself.

Sherlock bit his lower lip, considering his daughter for a moment. “Suit yourself.” He turned neatly on his heel and walked back downstairs. He stopped in the hall a moment, looked at the still-shut door, and proceeded to the sitting room with purpose in his step.

“Is Rosie not up yet?” John asked when he came out of the shower several minutes later.

Sherlock looked up from the circle of papers and periodicals piled up around him. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Is Rosie up? I thought I had heard her.”

“Oh. She’s awake. Lying upstairs in her own urine. She wanted to wait for you to change her.”

“Alright...” John said, a bit bemused and began to turn toward the stairs, before stopping. “What’s all this about?” John asked gesturing to the piles.

“I’m trying to find a copy of an article on ketoacidosis. It was in a publication from 2007, I believe.”

John nodded to himself. “I’ll just go get our daughter out of the pool of her urine then.”

“Uh-huh,” Sherlock responded, once more engrossed in his piles.

A few minutes later John reappeared, walking slowly down the stairs with Rosie’s hand in his own. “Everyone’s all nice and dry. May have to do some laundry later though.”

Sherlock tossed aside some file folders, seemingly unaware he was no longer alone in the room.

“Don’t tell Pata,” Rosie hissed.

“It’s fine, he’ll figure it out one way or another. Your Pata is Sherlock Holmes after all. Though at the moment, he doesn’t seem particularly observant. Sherlock?”

“I don’t like Pata.” The rustling of papers stopped.

“Rosie! We don’t say things like that!“ John responded, shocked.

“I hate Pata.” Rosie said, trying out the new word.

“Naughty step. Now.”

“I don’t wanna.” Rosie pouted, her lip began to quiver.

“I don’t particularly care what you do or don’t want right now,” John said, his voice clipped, “We do not hate anyone in this household, least of all your Pata. Now go sit. If I have to ask again, you’ll get to watch no shows today.”

Rosie stomped over to the bottom step and sat down. “I hate Pata.”

“No shows. Now apologize.”

“I won’t.”

“Rosie…” John said, his voice a warning.

“Sorry, Daddy.” Rosie said, looking down.

“I’m not the one who needs apologizing to. Tell Pata you’re sorry.”

“I can’t.” Rosie said, her breath growing ragged, before bursting into tears.

John looked back toward the living room for reinforcement, to see Sherlock standing in his circle of papers, staring.

“She doesn’t – this is just a phase,“ John offered helplessly, “Remember that month she cried every time someone other than you tried to hold her?”

Sherlock looked down at the paper in his hand. “This article is useless. They all are.” He began picking up folders and magazines from the floor and tossing them into an empty banker’s box. He reached down and picked up the box. “I’m taking them down to the bins.” The door swung shut behind him.

“Daddy…” Rosie hiccuped from her spot on the stairs. John reached down and picked his daughter, dumbstruck.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock put his box down on top of the bins in the alley, his knuckles white with pressure. He released his grip, his hands shaking slightly and leaned back against the building, the brick cold without his coat. He breathed in deeply through his nose, but the air came back out raggedly through his mouth. He closed his eyes and tried to quell the shaking in his body.

His phone pinged a text.

Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket with a still-quivering hand. 

_Please come to Winchester as soon as you can. I’m at my wit’s end._

A second text appeared.

_This is Violet Hunter._

He thumbed the screen dark and put the phone away steadily.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock looked out the train window at the passing countryside. It was a clear day, with a light blue sky that was flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across it from west to east. _John would call it beautiful_ , he thought.

But the country always made him a bit nervous. The spaces were too wide open. It was too far between the houses – far enough the neighbours couldn’t hear you scream. Too many places to hide a body never to be found.  To him, each lonely country cottage was home to some hidden wickedness gone unnoticed by the masses.

He looked at his watch. The train should arrive just in time for his appointment with Violet Hunter at the Black Swan. The location of the meeting gave him a shred of relief, as it was clear she could leave the house at her will, but the tenor of her message and what she had said of the situation thus far kept him from feeling altogether at ease.

He went through the facts Violet had told him at their first meeting, organizing them in his mind. He had devised seven separate explanations for the facts as he knew them, but those facts were slim at best and to try to make a reasonable conjecture without facts was as useful as trying to make bricks without clay.  He looked at his mobile, which rested on his knee. In 15 minutes he should have more facts.

 

* * *

 

Violet Hunter’s auburn locks were easy to spot upon arriving at the Black Swan pub. Her once long, wavy hair had indeed been cut very short, but instead of detracting from her appearance, it seemed instead to give a bit of elegance to what had been a girlish prettiness. Aside from the change to her hair, there seemed to be no great change to her appearance, but Sherlock knew well enough that not all bruises can be easily seen.

“Miss Hunter?”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes! I’m so glad you could make it!” Violet said, standing to shake Sherlock’s hand.

“Sherlock, please.” Sherlock pulled out his chair and sat. “It suits you,” he said, nodding toward her hair.

“It takes a bit of getting used to. I keep using too much shampoo.” Violet ran her hand through her close-cropped hair. “Can I order you something for lunch?”

“No, thank you. I’d rather get straight down to the facts of your situation. It’s been a week and a half since you came to me for advice. Has your employer mistreated you?”

“Not at all,” Violet replied. “At least, not in any ordinary way. That is to say, I can’t say that the Rucastles have mistreated me, but I can’t say I understand their behaviour either. And it’s frankly driving me more than a bit batty.”

“Start at the beginning.” Sherlock folded his hands on the table.

Violet looked at his hands and smiled. “I can ask the waiter for some crayons, if you think it will help.”

Sherlock smiled back. “That won’t be necessary, but be as specific as you can.”

Violet reached down into her bag and pulled out a small notebook and handed it across the table. “Oh, I’ve been taking notes!”

“Notes? “ Sherlock opened the book, impressed. “I wish all my clients were as prepared as you.”

“I think most of your clients don’t know that something may be coming,” Violet said, looking down, “but as I said, I’ve been reading about you for a while, so I know how important the details are you and I didn’t want to miss anything. So here it is, just as it occurred:

“As I said I would, I contacted Mr. Rucastle shortly after I left your flat, went and got my hair cut, and packed my things. The next morning I went to Winchester. When I arrived at the station, Mr. Rucastle was waiting for me in his car: it was a small Mercedes, a nice car, but it was several years old at least.

“I’d say the same of his estate, the Copper Beeches. It’s about 5 miles outside of town.  The house is beautifully situated, but the house itself, well, it’s seen better days. The house is a big block of a thing, and rather poorly maintained. The paint on the outside is chipping and peeling, and the inside is not much better. It’s drafty and creaky, the whole building practically moans all day. They keep half of the house locked up - they say it’s because it’s unneeded, but I think it’s so they don’t have to pay to heat it.”

“Strange that one so miserly would pay you such an extraordinary rate.”

“Yes, well. Had you met Edward, you would perhaps think me not paid well enough.”

“The child?”

Violet nodded.

“So he is, what was your word, difficult?” Sherlock asked, with some humour.

“I don’t like to speak ill of children, because all children are difficult at times,” Violet replied seriously, “but Edward is a spoiled brat if ever I met one. You recall at our interview how Mr. Rucastle mentioned that his son liked to kill cockroaches? That is the least of his nasty, cruel habits. He likes, for example, to catch mice, live, in traps and then feed them to their dog, for sport. The dog itself is a huge mastiff, a nasty, underfed creature they keep kennelled during the day and only let out at night. It prowls the grounds after dark, to keep away thieves, or so they tell me, but honestly there’s not much to steal.”

“And the parents are aware of the child’s hobbies?”

“His mother dotes on his every move. I’m sure if I asked she would think it charming.”

“Is she mad, then, as you expected?”

“For better or worse, no. She’s a nervous and dour woman, ridiculously devoted to that monster of a child, but sane. She’s no more than thirty, much younger than I expected, with Mr. Rucastle having mentioned a daughter old enough to move to America. From what I gather, they’ve been married about seven years and she seems to dote on her husband as much as she does her child.

“The daughter,” Violet continued, “the one who moved to America, was from his first marriage, and didn’t seem to care much for her new step-mother. Apparently skipped home as soon as she was of age, and with a step-mother closer in years to herself than her father, I wouldn’t wonder.

“There is, however, one thing I find strange about Mrs. Rucastle. During most of the day, she appears to be the most grey and unassuming person I have met, you could past her twice on the street in a minute and not remember you’d seen her before. But twice now, at night, I have come upon her doing the dishes and it seemed to me as if she had been crying.”

“Was there anything particular that happened on those days?”

“They were very ordinary days, though they seemed to be windier than most, which made the old house groan more frequently. If wouldn’t be surprised if she simply hated the house and wished to be gone from it.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said, unconvinced.  “What else has occurred?”

“On the third day, Mr. Rucastle came to me in the morning with the blue dress he had mentioned in his letter. He seemed a bit nervous. He kept chattering that they were so grateful for my patience with he and his wife’s whims, how I looked quite nice with my hair short, and would I please try on the dress and meet them in the sitting room in the west side of the house?”

“Was there anything usual about the dress?”

“Other than it’s electric-blue colour, nothing at all. It’s a plain shift dress. Some kind of stretch material, with short sleeves and a conservative neckline. It fit well and was comfortable enough, but it had obviously been worn before and with some frequency, as the fabric was beginning to pill and there was some staining under the arms. I knew Mr. Ruscastle had said that his daughter had left it behind when she moved, but seeing as it probably cost all of £35.00 at Marks & Spencer, it seems as if he could have gotten a new one.”

“What happened when you arrived at the sitting room?”

“First, I was surprised that they asked me there at all, it’s in the part of the house I assumed they didn’t use, as it’s been shut off the whole time I’d been there. But when I got there, Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were waiting for me in a pair of chairs, and Mr. Rucastle nearly jumped out of his with joy when he saw me in the dress. Both kept going on about how lovely I looked in it, which felt a bit over the top, if I’m being honest. They asked me to sit on a small sofa placed in front of the bay of windows at the front of the house and read to them from a book.”

“What was the book?”

“It was that cheap paperback that everyone’s been reading all of a sudden, the one that’s coming out as film soon. They seemed to have picked it up along with the groceries.”

“Did they seem interested in what you were reading?”

“Not at all. Mr. Rucastle just kept pacing up and down the room, while Mrs. Rucastle sat with her hands in her lap. Every time I looked up from the book, she was just staring at me, looking anxious. I don’t know that either of them listened to a word I said. After about 10 minutes of reading, I began to shiver.

“As I said, this was in the part of the house they usually kept shut off, and it seemed as if they still hadn’t turned on the heat in the room. I asked Mr. Rucastle if I could please go get a jumper, but he said that I ought to keep reading and sent Mrs. Rucastle for it. She came back with a cardigan and woollen lap blanket, neither of which were mine. Mr. Rucastle insisted on helping me with the cardigan and then tucked the blankets around my legs.”

“Did he touch you inappropriately at all?” Sherlock asked, urgently.

“No, it was more like you’d do for a child, or an elderly grandparent. It seemed kind, if unnecessary. After that, I read for another half-hour or so, when Mr. Rucastle suddenly said that it was time for me to change and go to Edward in the nursery. The same thing happened two days later, and again two days ago. Each time the same: put on the dress, sit in an unheated room, read a book aloud. Each time I’d complain of the cold and they’d bring me the same cardigan and blanket.”

“Was it exactly the same each time?’

“Not exactly, it was always in the morning, around 8 o’clock. But sometimes the reading would last 30 minutes and once it was over an hour. It’d always end rather abruptly. I tried to look out the window behind me, but the only thing I ever saw was the postman, walking down the lane to do his deliveries. It was all very strange, but seemed rather innocuous. “

“What then, prompted you contact me?”

“The last time I put on the dress, Mr. Rucastle seemed decidedly less pleased with my appearance in it than the first two times. I heard him asking his wife if she didn’t think that the dress was looking a bit snug today, and that evening at supper there was distinctly less food on my plate.”

Sherlock looked Violet over closely, his brow furrowed. “Your weight hasn’t changed since I saw you last.”

“I was certain of it myself, but there are no scales in the house, so I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t shake the thought of it, and when my breakfast the next morning was also a bit lighter than usual, well, that’s when I decided to call you.”

“I’m glad you did,” Sherlock said kindly. “Did you notice anything else out of the ordinary?”

“Only this.” Violet reached down into her bag and placed an item on the table in front of Sherlock.

“A hairbrush?”

“I found it shoved in the back of a drawer in my room when I was unpacking.”

Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and tweezers from his pocket and examined the brush, pulling out a long wavy strand of hair. “This is precisely –“

“The same colour as mine. Yes, I noticed. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have said it _is_ my hair, or was before I cut it. The colour, texture, all of it the same. I began to wonder if I wasn’t the first girl they’d hired to do this act, but if that was the case, how come the previous one got to keep her hair long?”

“An excellent question, one that I don’t have an answer to just yet. One more question for you – the sitting room where they have you read, is that the only part of the house shut up?”

“No. I haven’t been in the rest of it myself, but from the size of the house on the outside, I’d say there are 3 or 4 more rooms on that side that were shut up as well.”

“And when you say shut up?”

“Locked. The day of the first reading, I realized I had used my to-do list as a bookmark and went back to get it. I went to try the door, and found it locked. Furthermore, just as I was removing my hand from the doorknob, Mr. Rucastle opened the door from the sitting room side. I’m not sure who was more frightened, him or me, because he became all red in the face and flustered and muttered something about checking the seals on the windows so it wouldn’t be so draughty next time. Then he asked me what I had been doing and I told him about the list, so we walked in together, grabbed it from the book, and walked out, and then he quite clearly locked the door behind him. ‘Helps seal out the chill,’ he said jovially, and that was that.

“Call it women’s institution, or what you will, but something seemed wrong about those locked rooms, so I’ve been keeping an eye out for an opportunity to learn more. So imagine my luck, when Mr. Rucastle left his keys on the kitchen table before he left for work this morning! I snatched the one I had seen him use off the ring, and traded it for the house key of my own. He was in such a rush when he came back for them, that I doubt he’ll notice the change. I’d had a copy made at the hardware shop down the road before I came here.

“The Rucastles are planning to take Edward out shopping tomorrow morning at 10 – I think that we may find this of use, if you can stay for a night.” Violet slid a newly cut key across the table, her face beaming with pride. “That is, if your family won’t mind.”

Sherlock picked up the key and considered it.

“They’ll hardly miss me.”

  

* * *

 

 

That evening, Sherlock lay on his back on the lumpy mattress in the only available room at the Black Swan Inn, putting together the facts his mind:

  1. Violet was clearly chosen to impersonate someone – chosen, no doubt, because she had the desired height, figure, and hair colour, thus explaining her employer’s enthusiasm at first sight, his willingness to pay extra for those specifications, and his delight at her appearance in the dress.
  2. The personage being impersonated is likely none other than Mr. Rucastle’s daughter from his first marriage.
  3. Violet’s readings were carefully timed to coincide with the morning mail delivery, ensuring that at least one person would witness the impersonation.
  4. The young Miss Rucastle is most likely not gone to America at all, but imprisoned in the locked-up wing, with the dog let loose at night to prevent her escape.



Here, Sherlock’s focus rattled. How was it possible that a man could lock away his own daughter? His mind went again to what Violet had said about the boy and his sadistic habits. _Children are so often little mirrors of their parents_ , he thought, and he doubted that Edward was a reflection of his dour and nervous mother.

He hadn’t told Violet his suspicious because if she acted anyway out of the ordinary it would likely raise the suspicions of her employers, but he wondered now if he had made a wise choice in leaving her yet another night in that terrible house.

He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and sent a text.

_Did Rucastle notice the changed key?_

The reply was quick.

_Not at all, and I was able to exchange it back for the original as soon as he got home from work._

_Do nothing else out of the ordinary tonight or tomorrow,_ Sherlock responded. _Don’t risk your safety. We will resolve this tomorrow._

He put the phone back on the table.

Resolved tomorrow. A bold promise, for one thing continued to nag at Sherlock, if the hair in the brush was long, why had they been so insistent Violet cut her hair short?

Sherlock’s phone pinged another text, his eyes glanced over it briefly and then he closed them to focus on the question at hand, leaving the message unanswered.

_Spent the last 12 hours being cats. Have eaten no less than three tuna sandwiches today. I’m ready to hack up a hairball. Sorry you won’t be home tonight, but do what you have to and I hope the case is going well. Videochat with Rosie at bedtime?_


	7. Chapter 7

Violet had texted him at seven past ten, just as soon as the Rucastle’s car pulled out of the drive. The local cab got him to his destination within another 10 minutes, and as soon as he shut the door behind him, Sherlock regretted that he had ever let Violet Hunter spend a single night in the building.

The pair of copper beeches, still leafless at this time of year, stretched up in front of the shabby estate, like a pair of multi-fingered, clawing hands. This, combined with the general state of disrepair of the house and the grounds, gave the whole place an abandoned, sinister air. A cold breeze cut across the lawn. Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat closer around his neck.

The only bright spot on that dour doorstop was the sight of Violet, waving him in. “Edward made it very clear this morning that he hates shopping. So I imagine we’ve got less than an hour before they come back. Did you have any thoughts about what it all might be about?”

“I have my suspicious. Lead the way.”

Violet closed the front door behind him, and guided Sherlock to the sitting room, where she unlocked the door with the copied key. The room was exactly as Violet had described it - cold and unheated with the settee was placed where it would be most visible. No one walking down the lane could miss someone’s presence in it.

As Sherlock leaned toward the window to better scope out the sightlines, the building creaked, followed by a low moan. He turned around with sharp snap.

“That’s the wind I told you about. It’s creepy isn’t it?” Violet said.

“That’s not the wind.” Sherlock said, rushing out of the room through a door opposite where they had entered it, going into a hall that split into stairs before him and into a long corridor to his left.

Violet chased after him. “What you mean?”

Sherlock raised a hand in air and Violet stopped abruptly. The moan came again.

“Upstairs!”

Sherlock dashed up the stairs.

“If it’s not the wind, then what could it possibly be?”

At the top of the stairs there was another hall with four shut doors in front of them.

Sherlock flung the first door open to reveal an empty room. “What is Rucastle’s daughter’s name?”

Violet stopped in her tracks and stuttered, “I...I don’t know. He never told me.”

Sherlock flung open a second door, and seeing nothing, moved to the next one.

“You don’t mean – he couldn’t have possibly.”

“He did. And you were part of the deception so that no one would ever know.” Seeing nothing behind the third door, Sherlock reached the last door and found it locked. “The keys, Violet!!”

Violet handed him the keys. “I didn’t --.” Sherlock grabbed them and began trying each one in the lock without success.

“Miss Rucastle!” Sherlock said through the door. “Your father is out, and we are friends. Can you open the door from your side?”

A soft moan was the only reply.

Sherlock threw the keys on the ground. He looked at Violet. “I’m going to have to break it down.” He turned back toward the door. “Miss Rucastle! Stay back!”

Sherlock stood back as far as he could from the door and ran at it with his full speed, aiming his shoulder at the wooden panels in its centre. The wood was old and splintered at the impact. Sherlock peered through the hole he had created and then began tearing and kicking at the splinters, to make a space large enough for him to pass through.

Violet followed him through the gap. “Oh my god,” she said clasping her hand to her mouth. “I had no idea.”

The room was empty except for a large plastic bucket, a small table, and futon mattress on the floor, where a young woman with long, auburn hair lay shivering under a single wool blanket.

“Miss Rucastle? Can you walk?” Sherlock asked gently, kneeling next to the mattress. The thin figure on the floor shook her head. Sherlock placed one arm under her knees and another behind her back and scooped her up as easily as a child. “We’ve got to get her out of here. Go downstairs, make sure it's clear, and call a taxi now.”

Violet nodded, at a loss for words, and raced downstairs.

Sherlock carefully stepped through the broken door with the frail woman in his arms. “It’s alright. This will be all over soon, Miss Rucastle.”

“Alice Rose,” the woman said softly.

"Alice Rose." Sherlock pulled Miss Rucastle closer to his chest as he made his way downstairs. “You’re safe now, Alice.”

“I got the cab that brought you here. It should be back in a few minutes. I grabbed a jumper for her too,” Violet said, stretching out her arm with the garment.

Outside, a car door slammed.

“That’s too soon for the cab.” Sherlock said.

Violet’s eyes widened. “They’ve come back from shopping early. Quick! Out the back door!” 

Violet ran toward the back, pushing the door open for Sherlock, who was moving as quickly as he could with Alice in his arms.

They ducked behind a large shrub at the rear of the house, listening intently for footsteps in the house.

“He going to see that the sitting room door is unlocked. When he finds out what we know -- We’ll have to make a run for it. The cab will be coming over that way,” Violet whispered pointing across the large unkempt lawn, “maybe we can get to it before it reaches the lane.”

“Thieves!” A male voice bellowed from inside the house. “Spies and thieves!”

“Run!” Violet said.

The trio began to run across the lawn, knowing that they would have no cover, but that speed was everything now.

“Hold on, Alice.” Sherlock gasped as he struggled to run.

There was a barking sound in the distance.

“Carlo, sic ‘em!” came the cry from the back of the house, followed by a loud snap.

“He’s loosed the dog!"  Violet cried, "It hasn’t been fed in three days!!”

Sherlock’s lungs and arms were burning now and it took all his focus not to trip on the uneven ground. The snarling and barking in the distance took him back to Baskerville and he could even hear Henry Knight’s cries in his mind.

Then Sherlock blinked with a realization, the barking was not getting nearer and he wasn’t imagining the cries.

He stopped where he stood and began to laugh wildly.

“Are you mad?” Violet asked, grabbing his elbow. “Let’s go!”

“The dog turned on him. Cruelty begets cruelty.”

Violet looked back toward the house where the snarls and cries grew more frantic.

Sherlock's attention, however, was at the doorway of the terrible house, where Mrs. Rucastle stood, unmoving and shaking with shock, her child pulling on her skirt. “We have no need to rush now.”

Sherlock shifted Alice Rucastle’s weight in his arms and began to walk again toward the lane, where a cab was pulling up in the distance.

 

* * *

 

The sun was beginning to set as Violet sat with a cup of hot tea in her hands in the waiting room of the Winchester hospital, the heat through the walls of the cup doing little to warm her spirits. She watched as the police officers crossed out of the patient area. After a few minutes, Sherlock appeared and sat on the seat next to her.

“Is she – will she be all right?”

“She’s malnourished, but otherwise healthy. She’s away from her father, which means that things can only be looking up for her.”

“I had no idea -- I never would have, if I had known.” Violet said, desperately.

Sherlock took her hand gently. “Rucastle was a devious and deceptive man. If you hadn’t taken that job and you hadn’t contacted me, he would have found some other woman not nearly as clever as you and Alice would still be locked up in her own home, starving to death. You did nothing wrong.”

“There’s so much I don’t understand. How could someone do that to their own daughter?”

“That is a question I don't think I'll ever be able to answer." Sherlock said solemnly, looking at his own hands. The pair sat in silence for moment. "But as for the why, the answer is very ordinary. Money. Alice told me that the Copper Beeches came from her mother, who left the house and all her wealth to Alice in a trust when she died. As the house and the car showed, your employer had become accustomed to a certain lifestyle, but he no longer had access to the funds needed to maintain it. As long as Alice stayed with him, he could control her money, and he seemed to have taken the small monthly distributions she received for years.  When Alice became of age to have full access to the trust, she planned to move away and began packing her bags. Rucastle panicked, worried that he would lose even that small source of revenue, and decided that he would keep her under any means.”

“But why lock her away?”

“Though you'd be hard pressed to see it at the moment, Miss Rucastle is a spirited individual and would only stay by force. That’s when the locks and the dog appeared.”

“And they needed me to be the compliant one and play her role, so no one would notice she was gone?”

“Precisely.”

“But Alice’s hair was still long. Why did they want me to cut mine?”

“That was the part that bothered me most. Why indeed? My conclusion is this: Rucastle got greedy. The monthly cheques were no longer enough, he wanted the full amount of the trust and he knew that since Alice had no other living relatives, the proceeds would fall to him. But suspicion of murder would put a damper on those plans, so he came up with a devious solution. His daughter would simply waste away due to sickness, they probably told the locals it was cancer. And then there you were, as Poor Alice Rucastle, shivering in your own home, having lost your hair to chemotherapy and being gently tucked in with blankets by your caring father.  I suspect your meals would have continued to grow more and more meagre, until you were thin enough to be reasonably replaced by Miss Rucastle herself, now too ill to be anything but compliant. And then, when she finally succumbed to malnourishment, she’d be given a grand funeral and no one would be the wiser.”

“That’s terrible!!”

“I’ve seen a lot of terrible things in my life and –-“ Sherlock stopped himself and looked down at his hands. He looked back up at Violet. “I’m headed back to London tonight, as soon as I wrap up with the local police here. I can escort you back to the city, if you’d like, or, if not, there’ll be an open bed at the Black Swan.”

“I think I’d like to see the backside of this place as soon as possible, if you don’t mind waiting while I go back to gather my things,” Violet said. “After a day like this, I’d be glad of the company.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, “It’s not a good day to be alone.”

 

* * *

 

It was dark in the flat when Sherlock returned home, the exhaustion of single-parenting having caused John to turn in early.

Sherlock took off his coat at door and shut it behind him quietly. He looked around the room, his eyes stopping at the couch with the blanket across its back. He walked toward the hall and considered the shut bedroom door for moment, then slipped off his shoes, left them beside the door, placed his mobile on the kitchen table and quietly made his way upstairs.

He peeked into Rosie’s room and saw her curls reflecting the dim glow of the nightlight. He snuck into the room and stood beside her bed, her breathing slow and steady. His mind overwhelmed with the feelings he felt for this child and the things he has just seen. He leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her head and turned to walk back downstairs.

“Daddy?” A sleepy voice asked.

Sherlock hesitated in the doorway. “It’s Pata.”

“Did you stop the bad guys?”

“Yes, he won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

“That’s good.” Rosie yawned and rolled over clutching a worn stuffed dog and small red blanket to her chest.

Sherlock smiled a bit. “Good night, Rosie.”

“Night.”

Sherlock turned to leave.

“Pata? Can you stay for a little while?”

“I can stay as long as you need me to.”

Sherlock crossed back to the bed and lay down on top the small twin mattress on his side, as Rosie rolled over to face him.

“All night?” Rosie asked.

“All night.”

Sherlock tucked his arm under his head and watched as his daughter tucked her thumb into her mouth and closed her eyes. He felt her stretch out her legs under the covers, pushing the soles of her feet into the top of his thighs.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sherlock woke up late the next morning to an empty bed and a crick in his neck. He bent his head from side to side as he made his way down the stairs.

“Morning!” John said brightly, with a scarf tied around the top of his head. “There’s coffee in the pot, but it’s probably cold by now.”

Sherlock poured himself a cup anyway and took a sip.

“Rosie said you caught the bad guys. If you want to talk about it later, I can write it up for the blog.”

“No,” Sherlock said, “I don’t think this is one for the blog.”

“Suit yourself!”

“Daddy!’ Rosie jumped from the sofa onto her father’s back. “Stop talking to Pata and play with me!” She looked up at Sherlock. “Daddy and I are playing pirates.”

“Oh. Of course.” Sherlock looked down at the mug in his hand, and put it down before it started to quiver. “Have fun, then.”

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table and grabbed his mobile decisively. There were several new texts from Violet Hunter.

_I will be forever grateful for your kindness. Alice Rucastle will be too._

_I wanted to let you know that I got a call from a nursery school in Walsall this morning. I’d applied for a job there a month and a half ago and hadn’t heard anything, so I assumed they’d tossed my CV long ago. They’re offering me a job.  Salary’s not great, but there’s growth potential._

_I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be alright._

Sherlock looked up at his daughter playing in the sitting room, giggling with her father. Rosie stopped laughing and looked Sherlock in the eye.

“Pata.”

“Sorry, carry on. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Come play! We need someone to walk the plank.”

Sherlock smiled. “Just a moment.”

Sherlock typed something on his phone and set it down on the table, before rushing into the sitting room. “Arrgh! ‘Tis mutiny to make me walk the plank, you scurvey dogs!”

The message was visible for a moment before the screen on Sherlock’s phone turned black.

_I will be too._

 

 

 

_~fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another chapter in the life of this little family is complete. Thank you for reading and for your lovely comments - I appreciate each and every one. 
> 
> I was inspired to write this particular story because I was so drawn to the original ACD Copper Beeches story, one in which Holmes seems very preoccupied with the safety of his client, the rather resourceful Violet Hunter, and in particular, the repeated line of "no sister of mine." It seemed to be a perfect fit with this family version of Sherlock (subbing sister for daughter). 
> 
> As for the parentlock portions of this story, let's just say I have a three-ish child of my own at home and when she asked for tuna for lunch yesterday and noted that cats like tuna, it was all I could do not to laugh. 
> 
> There's one more very short story to come in the next few days, which will wrap up the Morals of Chess universe. It's been a wild ride and thanks for joining me on it.


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